It isn't gunfire that wakes me,
it is the pressured leak of incontinental bladders,
a constant drip like syphilis
that won't let me erect a rubberized dental dam,
spilling over the Dutch Boy
on my canned side,
paint splatters like Rorschach,
twisting and humming
a victory tune,
emulsified and cauterized
to prevent seven-year-old accidents.
My mother keeps yellow linen
for such a purpose.
J. Edgar Hoover sits in his concrete steel
at my foot post
in vigilant shame,
eradicating only small chances that a frilly summer sun dress
could be presented at the forefront
of the Paris fashion exposition,
attended by the societal cream of lawyers
and judges
whose gavels are as dried pasta,
clicking where to for
about in glass sampling bottles.
I am one of the few
whose donation in summarily
rejected
on the basis of over abundance.
My civic minded prostate is exhausted. |
Submission Name: Wet Dreams
